A day in the life

Saturday is a pretty big day here in the city of Boston. The "green day" is finally upon us and Boston College students are looking for the craziest ways to distinguish this St. Patrick's Day weekend from every other slop-fest throughout the year. But let's not get too self-indulgent. The holiday has its roots not in the American college

drinking scene, but in the religious fervor of an Irish missionary. So out of respect for the mother country, and since I was a traveler in the lush hills of the "Emerald Isle" just last week, I thought it appropriate to pass on the St. Patty's habits of bona fide celebrant. I feel

especially warranted because I am completely and utterly non-Irish. So here it is, the model day for

anyone who wants to ring in the holiday like a true Irishman. And ladies, I trust you're above these shenanigans.

7 a.m. - Roll out of bed. Shirtless. Stumble to the bathroom. Don't shave. Shower quickly using Irish Spring bar soap, and forget to shampoo your hair. Awkwardly whistle the tune of a U2 song.

8 a.m. - Eat bowl of Lucky Charms with goat's milk. After all, cow products in Ireland are nothing to rave about. Complement Lucky Charms with a "coffee" i.e., black coffee, Irish

whiskey, and sugar).

9 a.m. - Recline on a smelly old leather couch and turn on TV. Fall asleep to an infomercial. Wake up 15 minutes later to realize you don't have a beer. Grab a beer. A Guinness, of course … the first of many.

10 a.m. - Step outside to sniff the cool, crisp air. Snicker at the fact that it will soon smell like beer and trash. Realize you're still tired. Sleep till 11 a.m.

11 a.m. - Fall off the couch to the phone ringing. Your buddy wants to get the day started. That means lunch, laughs, and liquor at McGonagall's pub down the street. You're obviously down.

12 p.m. - Finally you leave the house,

confidently clad in a cream-colored, hand-knit wool sweater (a gift from your mother) and a loose-fitting black leather jacket.

1 p.m. - Your meal of potatoes and mayonnaise gets slammed in front of you. You are delighted to finally see food because you've been chewing your beer.

2 p.m. - Rush over to The Avalon to witness the punk transposition of your Irish musical roots: The Dropkick Murphys. The crowd is plastered. You're getting there.

3 p.m. - The band takes the stage. You're already bleeding.

4 p.m. - Your shirt's off. It's torn up. Two of your buddies have gotten kicked out. You're mentally planning the post-concert riot … that won't actually happen.

5 p.m. - When the show ends, you realize that the Southie Street Patrick's Day parade started two hours ago … and you're not there. You're reminded that the parade is actually tomorrow. Man, you're drunk.

6 p.m. - You're tired, bloated, and in need of a second wind. And you've got some time to kill until the evening's events. You retreat to a buddy's house for a late afternoon screening of Leprechaun In The Hood, just for kicks.

7 p.m. - Crack open a Smithwick's "Ireland's Oldest Ale"). Order a pizza, extra cabbage.

8 p.m. - Crack open a Guinness, call your mother, and wake your buddies up with a slap in the face.

9 p.m. - You realize you're still shirtless. And bloody. You don't shower, but can't turn down deodorant. Discuss plans for the night.

10 p.m. - Buddy interrupts with a long, horrible story that is clearly made up. He gets slugged. Shots of Jameson all around.

11 p.m. - Catch wind of a big gathering at another pub. It could even be a party, and there may even be girls. You're pumped.

12 a.m. - Blur.

1 a.m. - Vaguely remember belting out poor rendition of The Chieftains … and being slapped by a female.

2 a.m. - You recall the bartender telling people to leave, and that Boston ran out of Guinness.

3 a.m. - Blur.

4 a.m. - Get home. Your head hurts. You put on Boondock Saints to ease the pain away. Nothing like a couple of mass murderers to put you to sleep.

5 a.m. - Dreaming of pleasantries and the Blarney Stone.